


Mr. Blue Sky

by eouxe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Happy Ending, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, because literally how else are we getting the ineffable idiots together, this is a wholesome fic thank you for asking, with just enough drama to fuel the fires of love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-07 07:38:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20305840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eouxe/pseuds/eouxe
Summary: Anathema didn't hate her job at Infernal Floral. She didn't hate that Crowley, whose screaming she could occasionally hear from the orchid room, regularly abandoned her to the front of the shop to greet the occasional customer and make sales. No, she was rather fortunate to have an enjoyable job, a temperamental but doting boss, and a rather pleasant view of the cute shopkeep across the street.Newt saw his job at A.Z. Fell & Co. as less of a shopkeep and more as a security guard: he ran inventory approximately twice a year, helped maintain laughably irregular shop hours, and warded off potential customers. It was a job he still wasn’t quite sure befit the running of any business and often required he check his common sense at the door—but he didn’t ask questions. This job had exposed him to quite a better selection of literature than his home town’s sad excuse of a library, payed enough for him to live in a decent studio in London sans flat mates, and, oh yeah, was across the street from the world’s most attractive florist.(Or, the one where Anathema and Newt get together, and Crowley and Aziraphale follow suit)





	1. Chapter 1

Infernal Floral sat on an easily-overlooked corner in Soho, all large windows framed by dark woodwork and the golden lettering above the door declaring that yes, this was indeed a flower shop and not a hipster coffee shop with an overabundance of ferns and an underwhelming tea selection. The windows, slightly hazy with a film that regular rain and city air always seems to leave behind, were nevertheless just clear enough for the modest amounts of sunlight and foot traffic to peak through and gaze upon the verdant interior. Through rain or, less frequently, shine, the flower shop offered busy city folk a reprieve from the cold concrete streets of London. The hand-painted lettering on the southeast window boasted of orchids, custom floral arrangements, houseplants, and hours between 9 and 9 every day but Sunday, when the hours were from 2 to 6 (not for any religious reasons, but because the only two staff members of Infernal Floral had developed a rather difficult-to-kick brunch habit in the past few years and found that sitting for brunch before 11 really wasn’t brunch).

The interior of the shop was what really shined, though, rewarding the occasional customer that ventured in past the rather ordinary exterior. An island of calatheas and pothos and snake plants and other potted growths filled the middle of the shop, bags of potting soil skirting around the territory. To the left, the walls were lined with handcrafted pots, gardening tools, and a few choice books on urban and community gardens, home-grown herbs and spices, and general plant care for Londoners. To the right, an abundant and somewhat-entangled display of individual stems—carnations, roses, lilies, sunflowers, and a host of other flowers—sat next to the shop’s work counter. Rarely was this counter ever cluttered, despite its regular role as a repotting station, pre-ordered arrangement storage, register stand, and lunch table. Just behind the work counter was a hallway, with doors to their employee bathroom-slash-storage room and the orchid room. Climate-controlled and always lit with just the right amount of light thanks to some carefully-placed (see: painstakingly measured and frowned-over) UV lamps, the orchid room held dozens of Anthony J. Crowley’s pride and joy, and more often than not, the man himself.

Sure, the plants they kept inside the main shop were more for filling the space than for selling to customers. And their floral arrangements, while carefully arranged, were not any better or worse than the number of floral shops spread throughout London. But while run-of-the-mill rose bouquets and fiddle-leaf ferns were appealing enough for the average customer coming in to commemorate an anniversary or liven up their flat, the shop’s specialty was orchids—rare and hybrid flowers that Crowley carefully cultivated, cared for, shouted at, and sold. While unassuming, the shop was a favorite of many botanists who coveted the rare flowers—and though neighboring business owners whispered about how with such an irregular customer-base the shop surely had to be a front for money laundering, those in the know would attest that incomparable knowledge and skill with nature’s most finnicky flowers paid, well, quite well.

That was what Anathema told herself, anyway. She’d seen enough people in suits escorted into the back room by her boss—where they could spend anywhere from minutes to hours with Crowley--and they just as easily could have been discussing Dragon’s mouth as they could have angel dust. In the end, she supposed, it didn’t matter—she got paid (rather well, she might add, given the fact she was not botanist and hardly did more than watch the register and occasionally water the potted plants out front each day) and she had never felt unsafe in the shop. Rude customers weren’t much of an issue for her there, but she thought that was rather less due to the cheery disposition prospective plant-buyers had and more to do with the fact that Crowley, who despite devoting the majority of his time to his orchids wasn’t opposed to lurking up front with her when he had the time or when she made a point of drawing him out for lunch, had a glare so fierce it scared away any hostility a customer might bring through the shop’s doors. On any given day, Crowley would open up to shop and immediately duck in to inspect and, on occasion, verbally abuse, his stock of orchids—leaving Anathema to her own devices up front.

Indeed, the front of the shop was Anathema’s domain, where she did everything from greet the occasional customer, prepare online and phone orders for floral arrangements and bouquets, make the occasional sale, or, more often, dance around the shop to Crowley’s 80’s playlists while watering the ferns or repotting the fiddle-leaf fig. No, she rather liked having the flowers and plants as company and knew that Crowley could say the same of his orchids, but it was nice to have a quiet lunch or easy-going conversation with her boss every now and again. He would deny it with a fire in his eyes whenever she brought it up, but Anathema could sense that he was rather fond of her and, dare she say, a bit protective as well. She wasn’t complaining. She might have a bit of a soft spot for Crowley, as well.

All in all, Anathema was very happy with her job. She was surrounded with beautiful plants all day and, when she went home, was never so tired that she couldn’t sit for a few hours and write or read or enjoy a glass of wine. At her last job, just after she had finished her degree, she had been a research assistant for an absolutely horrid professor. Back then, with dreams of graduate school and research grants and making a name for herself, Anathema had allowed herself to be run ragged in the name of her career. A career, she thought distastefully, that hadn’t even been hers to begin with. She spent her days doing research for somebody else’s interests and was left with little energy to do much more than reheat a frozen pizza for dinner before collapsing into bed, only to repeat everything the next day. Rarely did she have the effort to comb through literature on her own interests, let alone dedicate the hours needed to apply for grants so she might pursue her research interests outside of the dusty office of the professor. She had felt stifled, trapped, and absolutely hopeless until one day, she had walked into an inconspicuous flower shop hoping a plant at her desk might counteract the vast amounts of beige in her not-quite-an-office, and instead had walked out with a job offer and a spring in her step.

No, she thought, she was rather fortunate to have a fulfilling job, a temperamental but doting boss, and not to mention a rather pleasant view of the cute shop keep across the street.

* * *

Aziraphale Fell was the proud owner of A. Z. Fell & Co., a rare and vintage book shop across the street from Infernal Floral. [1] Newton thought proud was a better description to give upfront when discussing his boss, but anybody who had more than one interaction with Mr. Fell (who insisted, on a near daily basis, that honestly, Newton, it’s been five years, just Aziraphale is fine) would attest that proud is not quite enough to capture Mr. Fell’s relationship to his shop and, by extension, his books. He was drawn to an eclectic mix of misprinted bibles, first-edition prints of English playwrights and poets, American playbills, books proclaiming to hold prophecies or at the very least foggy ideas of What’s To Come, and anything Oscar Wilde or Wilde-related. It was rare that Mr. Fell would go more than a few weeks without travelling to some distant estate sale, flea market, or auction to add to his collection—which was where Newt came in, overseeing the shop while Mr. Fell went on his travels and assisting in relocating the new acquisitions when he returned.

Mr. Fell, as Newt saw it, was rather like a magpie—he’d pick out the best and most coveted books he could find, frequently traveling across the country to add to his collection, but he’d be damned if a customer tried to come in and purchase any of his prized possessions. Initially, Mr. Fell would be entirely polite in discouraging customers from making any sort of purchase, insisting that the books were out of their price range or perhaps they might be better off with a reprinted edition from the Waterstones in Piccadilly, yes, especially if they planned on dog-earring the pages. Occasionally, a customer would come in and, undeterred by Mr. Fell’s initial dissuasion that no, they had been looking for ages for a first-edition of Sartoris to finally complete their collection and really, money is no object and they would indeed like to make a purchase. Mr. Fell, in these moments, could be better likened to a shrike: ready to pick them up and skewer them on the nearest wall sconce. He would systematically interrogate them on their knowledge of vintage book upkeep, on the depth of their familiarity with the book in question, and had, on one memorable occasion, made thinly-veiled threats until the would-be customer left in righteous anger.

It was, in this way, that Newt came to see his job less as a bookstore shop keep and more as a museum security guard: he assists Mr. Fell with inventory approximately twice a year, helps maintains laughably irregular shop hours, and wards off prospective customers who may look, certainly, but may not touch. He was not, under any circumstances, to sell a book unless it is pre-approved by Mr. Fell himself (in person, never over the phone, and only after Newt has run through the page of handwritten questions Mr. Fell gave him in order to assess that Mr. Fell is not in any way inebriated, concussed, or otherwise mentally unsound). [2] Once, after just a month of working, Newt had accidentally succeeded in selling a second-edition Keats and was fired on the spot. After an hour and two bottles of wine later, Mr. Fell emerged from the back room and informed Newt--who had been rooted to the floor in shock from Mr. Fell’s sudden and rather uncharacteristic outburst--that he was not actually fired, but could he, in future interactions, please not sell any more books without seeking approval and certainly without at least checking to see if there wasn’t a duplicate in the inventory.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had witnessed a book sale in his time working under Mr. Fell, and each transaction had resulted in copious amounts of alcohol consumed afterwards and an air of melancholy and angst that lingered throughout the shop in the days following. Newt spent most of his days reading at the desk that technically was also the front counter, reading anything that Mr. Fell deemed him fit of transporting between his flat and the book store, and occasionally looking up when the small bell above the front door indicated some poor soul might try and buy something. Occasionally, when he began to crave some variety, he’d dust the shelves and check the bindings of books section by section, doing his best not to glance too obviously out the windows and across the street. It’s a job which he still isn’t quite sure befits the running of any business (as how can one keep the lights on and a shop keep on pay roll if an average of one book is sold per year?) and often requires he check his common sense at the door—but he doesn’t vocalize his questions. After all, this job has exposed him to quite a better selection of literature than his home town’s sad excuse of a library, pays enough for him to live in a decent studio in London sans flat mates, and, oh yeah, is across the street from the world’s most attractive florist-slash-horticulturist-slash-he wasn’t really sure what she did in the shop but that didn’t matter much, did it? He existed in the glimpses between shelves and rows of 19th century fiction, hoping one day the possible-botanist might be more than just a daydream to get him through the a particularly overworked section of purple prose in Mr. Fell’s latest recommended book. But mostly, Newt found, he found he rather couldn't complain.

* * *

1 It was also directly adjacent, to many customer’s embarrassment and to Newt’s utter amusement, to an adult bookstore aptly called Intimate Books. Due to A. Z. Fell & Co.’s placement on the corner of its street, the location of its door was slightly less intuitive than one might have thought. Many times, Newt had witnessed red-faced and slightly traumatized customers wander in after having mistakenly entered the neighboring shop.

2 This list was given to Newt after the Keats Incident, written in neat cursive on what appeared to be parchment. He keeps it taped to the front counter, and it has only weathered enough to leave one of the latter questions slightly obscured. While he would never admit it out loud to Mr. Fell, it amuses him to no end that Mr. Fell considers a question on the validity of moral relativism a sufficient means of screening for sobriety and sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work since, well, ever! It's not reviewed by anybody, so please let me know what you think in the comments and if there are any glaring errors you see fit to point out.
> 
> Also, you know Harold Smith from Twin Peaks? Crowley is loosely (l o o s e l y) based off of him, because I think self-doubt and strident perfectionism as compensation for perceived personal failings translate well to orchid care. Or something.


	2. Chapter 2

“That shop keep is staring at you again,” Crowley says, glaring out the window over his takeaway cup of coffee. He’s perched on her stool behind the front counter, but unlike when she sits there, he doesn’t pretend to make himself busy. No, if he’s up there he’s either changing the music to something Freddie Mercury-adjacent or finding some new, creative way to ruin her life.

“Hmm,” Anathema agrees, not really paying attention to Crowley but instead trying to wrangle a rather girthy aloe plant into a new pot. She would’ve paid him mind but, really, if he was going to stand by clutching his room temperature coffee she had grabbed for him nearly four hours ago and glare out the window rather than offer to lend a hand, she really didn’t feel much need to give him her full attention. Besides, this aloe plant has needed to be repotted for weeks now and she’s been procrastinating it because she knows it’s a dirty job that involves manhandling but, well. She’d rather avoid Crowley’s harassment and repot a plant than the other way around, frankly.

“He keeps glancing over like he thinks he’s discreet,” he continues, ignoring her noncommittal noise. “I don’t know if this is some kind of ploy to poach you and get you to work stocking shelves, or if he’s some sociopath who’s planning on following you home after your get off—”

“Crowley.” She wiped her brow with her wrist, carefully avoiding her dirt-flecked hands, and shot him a look. He was still glaring at the figure across the street. _Christ._

“—but I have half a mind to go over there and let him know you’re illiterate and a black belt in whatever it is you’re a black belt in, but he should get that sense looking at that bike you come in on everyday—"

“_Crowley_.” Was that enough dirt in the pot? Probably.

“—and honestly, I know this street’s gossip all but revolves around our extralegal income sources and how many different types of cocaine we must be selling under the table, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pawn off my best employee—”

“—only employee—”

“--to some book collector and his juvenile shop keep who can’t even balance himself on a bloody _step-ladder, _just because he keeps sparing glances_—”_

“Okay, Crowley? I appreciate your concern, but I’m pretty sure Newt isn’t going to murder me or, like, entice me to shelve books for a living.” Anathema clapped her hands, scattering soil and dust across the floor. “He seems…sweet.” 

He pulls a face at that, and finally looks away from the window to send her a withering look. “Sweet?”

She decides the aloe plant is settled enough in its roomy new terracotta pot and heaves it up onto the island alongside the others before walking over to Crowley, maintaining a carefully-schooled neutral expression. Before she has the chance to divert the conversation—maybe to confirm next week’s scheduled appointment with one Mrs. Eliza James, who wants to look at the _Epipogium aphyllum _Crowley’s been obsessing over for the past month—he catches her taking a quick glance out the window. And frankly, she thinks, they needed to hire those window washers again because while the state of their windows had been fine during autumn, the more regular streams of sunlight coming in with the advent of spring was making them appear dingier than usual. Indeed, she had lots of very professional business-related things she could pull upon right in this very moment to keep him from delving further into this topic she _very much didn’t want to get into, thanks. _But she knew she was caught when she looked back to Crowley and saw everything flash across his face: confusion, disgust, and then--

“No!” he cried, gesturing wildly with his coffee.

A few drops fly out, landing onto his shoulder, onto the stupidly expensive shirt that looks like the dozens of other stupidly expensive shirts he wears despite owning and working at a flower shop where he is continually exposed to dirt and mud and things that stain expensive fabrics. It goes entirely unnoticed. She hates to think about what his dry-cleaning bill must look like.

“Absolutely not! You’re not allowed! _No_!”

“He’s cute,” Anathema says defensively, crossing her arms and turning up her chin. Anathema wears semi-practical clothes to work and will not be talked down to by a man wearing silk. “And besides, he’s harmless. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.”

“Wh—I--,” he splutters, and _Christ_, Anathema knew this was going to happen, which is why she never brought it up and tried to keep her glances furtive and casual.

She’d done her best to ignore his fluffy mop of brown hair, his goofy lopsided grin he reserved for those fleeting moments they made eye contact, his lingering presence among the shelves that looked out across the street towards her. Admittedly, it had been a little easier to ignore the spluttering of his sad excuse for a car when it pulled up in front of the shop most days, as well as his absolutely hideous sweaters he wore over button-ups and worn-in pants but somehow still looked charming in. Anathema was observant, and she had been watching Newt for some time, so she liked to believe she had a good sense of who he was. She’d only been at the flower shop for three years, but those years had been colored by the occasional glances shared with him. It was difficult to say how long this game they’d been playing had been going on for, but it had certainly ramped up after they’d met in person a year ago.

Fed up with Crowley’s staunch dedication to knowing absolutely nobody in the neighboring shops and businesses, Anathema had taken it upon herself to arrange several small bouquets with their nicest spare stems and had gone door to door introducing herself and Infernal Floral on Crowley’s behalf. She’d met a lovely couple who ran an organic soap and wellness shop, made friends with a psychic who did palm readings and offered Anathema a discount on crystals should the need arise, finally caught the names of the owners of the amazing café and been given a discount card for future visits, and then she had met Aziraphale and his rather frazzled-looking shop keep. And that had been the start of a long, slow decent into wistful day-dreaming about whether he might smell like old books and tea, or how his hair must look in the morning when he first wakes up, or what his lips might feel like on hers, or-- 

“You’re entirely out of his league, for one!” Crowley was still going, fueled by caffeine and spite and some rampant sort of assholery that was rarely directed at Anathema these days. “And--and for another, there’s no way that bookshop isn’t a front for something—something, I don’t know, malicious! I know we get enough dirty looks from the neighborhood commission, but honestly, have you _ever _seen anybody walk out of there with a book?”

Anathema rolls her eyes and decides to ignore him. She hadn’t, in fact, ever seen somebody leave the book shop with a book in hand. But that wasn’t to say they were doing anything illegal, or that the cute and somewhat doe-eyed shop keep had anything to do with it even if there _was _something not-quite-kosher happening across the street. She doesn’t say this because it’s not going to do much; Crowley’s already stalking out from behind the counter and lunging towards their book display. He picks up a copy of _Guerilla Gardening_, glares at it, and slams it back down again. Anathema watches him with an eyebrow raised, and he does it twice more—with _Homegrown Herbs: Everything You Need to Know _and then _A Londoner’s Guide to Potted Plants_—and she thinks, by the third book, he’s calmed down. She reclaims her stool, still cautious. And then, unexpectedly, he turns on her and points, face contorted.

“We sell more books than they do! Tell me you’re not convinced they’re running a sex trafficking ring!”

And she has to laugh, really. Rarely does Crowley get this worked up over things unrelated to orchids.

“Crowley, I’m _positive _Aziraphale, our incredibly sweet neighbor who brought us _scones _for the shop’s anniversary” —and there’s a grumble from him at that, because they were scones from their favorite café up the street and he _knows _they were delicious "—and who asked for my advice in starting an herb garden is not running a sex trafficking ring out of his book shop. _Shit_.”

He still looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to run out the door and assault Newt. Newt, who she admittedly had only had the briefest of interactions with once over a year ago but who seemed genuinely kind and funny and drives a car that both her and Crowley have made fun of on multiple occasions. Newt, who worked for Mr. Fell (who insisted it was _just Aziraphale, dear, and what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance)_, at the bookshop-that-didn’t-sell-books and traded nervous glances with her from across the street. Newt and Aziraphale were both, as far as she was concerned, perfectly kind men who had a standing offer to stop by and peruse their modest book selection should they ever feel the need. Which Crowley would know, if he ever bothered to act on any of Anathema’s suggestions about establishing better rapport among the neighbors or listened when she did his job for him and gave a recap. But instead, they were arguing about the malicious intent of a book keep and his assistant at 8 o’clock on a Friday night. So maybe there were, in fact, some downsides to her job she hadn’t considered yet.

With one last assessing look, Crowley turns away from her and she knows—she can just _feel it_—he’s pushing up his sunglasses and pinching the bridge of his nose like she’s giving him a headache and willing himself to not do anything regrettable like call her naïve or storm the book shop with a pitchfork. His shirt, with the coffee spot he still hasn’t acknowledged, is rumpled in the back, and she thinks he looks tired even from behind. It's in the way he's holding himself. She feels guilty, just for a minute, because while his methods of expressing concern are completely unconventional and annoying at the best of times, he at least makes an effort. Its more than she can say about most people in her life.

When he turns back to her, he’s got a forced smile on his face and he’s not meeting her eyes, but his voice is soft when he says, “Okay. What say we close up shop a little early and get on? Leave the repotting for tomorrow.”

And she knows that tone; it’s the “okay, we’re tabling this because I’m fond of you and don’t want to permanently destroy our relationship over this, but I have more to say on this matter” voice. The guilt comes back two-fold, but it helps steel her resolve. She can work with that. She can take it for what it is and reassess her plan of attack when she’s in the comfort of her own home and has a glass of wine in hand to assist with the strategizing. So, it’s with a nod and a playful smile that she turns the overhead music up a little bit louder, switches the song from the final refrain of a Foreigner song and to her own playlist that is almost exclusively Electric Lights Orchestra and maybe, like, three Queen songs.

And because he’s Crowley, he takes the olive branch, and when “Hold On Tight” starts blasting on the sound system, he dances like nobody’s watching and lets himself be pulled by her into an embarrassingly uncoordinated version of what some might recognize as the unholy lovechild of the Mashed Potato and the Electric Slide. And if anybody were ever to mention any of it, he would deny it fervently with a smile on his face and a look of death in his eyes.

* * *

Newt had been half-mindedly dusting the same shelf for nearly an hour. It had started out as a genuine endeavor, honestly, but then he had caught sight of the florist bending over a giant pot of…something. It was giant and quite frankly looked like it had to be about as heavy as she did, but she made the ordeal look about as physically straining as shoving a blanket into a too-small box. She’d been having a go of this particular plant for about ten minutes, and he’d gotten distracted. Again.

He felt horrible, because he knew that they’d been introduced before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. Anabelle? Arabella? Something with a lot of syllables that he remembered hearing and thinking, _she’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. _What he did remember was her accent; she was incredibly American, but not in the way he’d heard before on the television where there was nasally intonation and a weird downturn in vowels. No, she was articulate and spoke like she was sure of herself, and…well. She’d gifted a small vase of carnations and some purple-pink flowers he hadn’t recognized, and had complemented Mr. Fell on his collection, citing she had been a history major and would have killed to have this amount of primary sources at her disposal when she’d been writing her thesis. And Newt, not even really a part of the conversation at that point, had listened to the two of them chat and stood off to the side wondering when he should politely take his leave but she’d looked at him then, searched his eyes for something she must have found, and then offered a small smile. And he had been hopelessly enamored ever since.

“Miss Device seems to be doing well, then,” came a hum from behind him.

Newt startled at the voice—honestly, he’d been so intent on watching the florist wrangle the weird green spiky plant into submission that he hadn’t heard the approaching steps—and nearly fell off the step ladder he’d been perched upon. Heart racing, he looks below him to shoot a half-hearted glare and gather his wits.

“Oh! Oh—careful, dear boy, wouldn’t want you falling.” And then Mr. Fell chuckles to himself, and continues, “Off any ladders, that is.”

And oh, _why _does Newt have to have the most embarrassing person ever as a boss? He feels himself flush, and he’s fumbling slightly as he descends the step ladder. Mr. Fell only half-jokingly holds out an arm as if to spot him. 

“Right—I—sorry, Mr. Fell.” He brushes himself down, the dust from the shelves clinging stubbornly to his sweater. Briefly, he wonders if he might be able to convince Mr. Fell to bulk order lint rollers and then realizes that wouldn’t help much since the shop was pretty much a dust factory.

“Newton, you make me feel quite older than I am with that ‘Mr. Fell’ business,” Mr. Fell says with the endeared annoyance of somebody who has long-ago accepted that they will likely never hear their first name uttered by the shop keep in question, but repeating the request is something of a force of habit.

“O’ course, Mr. Fell,” Newt mumbles, distractedly.

The florist—_Miss Device_—has moved over to the counter and appears to be fighting with her boss. Huh_. _There’s a lot of pointing and gesturing from her boss’s end and she’s just sitting, seemingly unphased or perhaps amused by the pageantry. He looks back to Mr. Fell, who is watching him with the sort of devilish smile that means he’s going to buy _another _Oscar Wilde, or even worse, possibly attempt to impart some kind of _worldly knowledge _on Newt.

“You know, dear boy, I do believe it was Aristotle that said, ‘happiness depends upon ourselves,’” Mr. Fell says. His eyes, blue like cornflowers, were bright and more mischievous than usual.

“Okay…” Newt, honestly, had no idea where he was going with this. He folds up the stepladder for something to do with his hands, which he’s started feeling the need to wring.

“That is to say, I do think happiness is attainable and therefore, to some degree, _actionable_.”

“Sure,” Newt agrees hesitantly, searching Mr. Fell’s for any hint at what the actual _hell_he was getting on about.

Mr. Fell, seemingly catching on to the fact that Newt was not following, sighed good naturedly and puts his hands on his hips. He looks as if he’s about to scold Newt for not doing his chores before hanging out with his friends.

“Newton, I believe Miss Device would certainly be amenable to whatever outing you’ve been considering. Certainly, a nice _dinner _couldn’t hurt?”

“I—What--” and Newt absolutely splutters, because it still astounds him that Mr. Fell can simultaneously be so observant and oblivious. There were rules to these kinds of things, and besides, he didn’t even really know her, and beyond that-- “She—her boss is _terrifying!”_

“Oh, Crowley? No, all of my interactions with him have been nothing but civil. He may come off as a little rough around the edges, but I assure you, in my experience he’s acted nothing but the perfect gentleman,” and then he pauses, considering. “But that’s not your only objection, is it?”

“We’ve only met once! And I don’t even remember her _name_,” he cries, and that’s getting closer.

Really, the heart of the issue, and he will never admit this to Mr. Fell, is that Miss Device was so incredibly out of his league it was physically painful. She was cool, and kind, and reasonably confident and never seemed to do any of the horribly embarrassing things Newt always did. He watched her ride her motorcycle to work some mornings, cutting out her loud rock music with the louder engine, and was sometimes able to watch when she shook out her long brown hair from her helmet and replaced her spectacles before moving to unlock the shop. Miss Device, it seemed, wasn’t a woman who felt she had to compromise any bit of herself for the world. She walked with perfect posture and a purposeful step and Newt thinks, every time he sees her, that she must rarely second-guess herself. He knew she liked coffee, as she always made a point of taking a break some time before lunch to walk to the café with the good scones down the street. She’d sometimes return with an additional cup and a bag of pastries, which he figured she passed along to her (still decidedly terrifying) boss and wasn’t that just so _sweet_and _considerate_? Miss Device wore long flowy skirts and combat boots and sometimes fluffy patterned jackets that looked like something his mum might stash in her closet but on her it looked rather tasteful and chic. She had a smile like the sun, and she liked to dance while she watered the plants after closing shop, and she ordered way too much takeaway from the Vietnamese place nearby. And she definitely knew heaps about plants, and Newt himself had nearly failed elementary biology after his microscope had somehow caught fire, and, and, and….

She was incredible, Miss Device, and Newt was just…Newt. Just plain, ordinary, insignificant Newt. Newt, who despite having a decent paycheck, still decorated his flat with mismatched charity furniture and could only cook about three meals. Newt, who drove the car he’d had since he had first started driving and who didn’t know how to use social media and who didn’t know anything about wine, despite Mr. Fell having tried several times to develop his palette and familiarity.

“Anathema,” Mr. Fell hummed, pulling Newt out of his head. “Her name is Anathema Device. And I must say, if that singular meeting was anything to go by, she was quite taken with you as well, dear. I don’t recall if I mentioned, but she extended an invitation to look over their gardening books should the interest ever arise. I believe I might have mentioned wanting to start an herb garden to her, and she was so helpful in explaining just what I might be able to plant given the weather conditions here. And well, of course we got on talking…” And he continues on about how, actually, maybe he should pop over soon, as his budding basil plan has been developing spots and he wonders if it’s anything to be concerned about?

Well. In that case, Anathema Device was not only out of his league, but playing an entirely different sport altogether. He glances, one last time, towards the flower shop, and quirks the smallest of smiles as he watches her pull her boss into a rather graceful spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anathema has a motorcycle because the first time Crowley saw her ride her bike to work he'd laughed and called her charming. Incensed, she spent the next week taking an intensive motorcycle-riding course and had gotten her motorcycle a week and two days following the comment. She pulled up to work in it, and while he raised an eyebrow, he didn't say anything more about it. Also, she's a badass and likes to street race from time to time.


	3. Chapter 3

When he got home that evening, Newt tossed his keys in the general direction of his kitchen table and made quick work of undoing the top button of his shirt. Mr. Fell had never formally instituted a dress code at the shop, but the few times Newt had wandered into work with more casual jeans or, on one occasion, a t-shirt, he’d gotten a poorly-concealed look of distaste sent in his direction. After that, he had made a point of wearing nicer shirts and pants, had invested in a rather nice pair of loafers, and was even known to wear a sports coat from time to time. That day, he’d opted for a more casual button-up shirt and dark pants, but he’d found himself desperate for his nightly switch to a soft cotton once he’d gotten into his car and started his drive home.

His keyring skittered across the laminate faux-wood, falling over the edge and onto the floor by his fridge. Pulled out of his thoughts, he spared them an unsatisfied glance, coming to a halt just in front of the kitchen.

“Rude,” he said to the keyring, not expecting an answer but hoping to make his displeasure known. The keys, as predicted, did not respond.

With a sigh and perhaps an overly-exaggerated movement, he swept the keys from the floor and slammed them a little too hard on the table once more. He could tell he nicked the soft wood._Couldn’t he do anything right_, he wondered, _or was that asking too much? _With yet another heaving sigh, he opened up his fridge and pulled a beer while briefly surveying the contents. On the top shelf, tucked behind a long-forgotten stock of celery, was a take-away Chinese container. He pulled that, too, and plucked a fork from the drying rack by the sink before making his way towards the couch.

The old thing was overstuffed in its arms and back but worn thin over the years, such that it was rather threadbare in the seat and lumpy in the more well-worn places. Not that he minded, and it wasn’t like he ever had company to judge him for it. This couch, in all its muted-floral glory, had been with him since uni, and was indeed the only piece of furniture that had stuck with him through several moves. Just like his car, Dick Turpin, he was rather attached to it not because it was a good couch, but because it was his _first_couch. The thought of replacing it, of switching it out for some fashionable but unfamiliar piece of furniture, made his heart lurch. No other couch but _his couch _would be as forgiving of misplace mustard stains, of beer spills, of the occasional drool spot from a late night that left him unable to make it to his bed. He certainly appreciated the sheer comfort and sense of home that emanated from the cushions, even if to any stranger it might look like a couch that deserved a spot in the trash heap.

Newt uncapped the beer and took a sip before thinking, not for the first time, of what Anathema might think if he brought her home to, well, _this_. He imagined she would be incredibly polite, perhaps complementing him on the rug his mum had bought for him or the artwork he had up in the hallway—the four frames he’d gotten at an art show nearly three years ago after being dragged there by an old uni friend, and that had somehow found their way into a moving box after his last move. He might offer her a beer, he thought, or maybe he’d have had the foresight to grab a bottle of wine Mr. Fell had recommended in the past, and they would settle down on the couch. Newt, of course, would recline into the embrace of the couch that had been hastily Febreeze’d the day before, and Anathema would sit stiffly on the edge until perhaps the first bits of alcohol put her at ease and then she, too, would relax into the well-loved couch. They’d discuss work, probably, and maybe their respective bosses, before venturing into hobbies. He’d ask her about her bike, and perhaps hint that he’d like her to ask about his car and the origin of a name like Dick Turpin, and maybe they’d talk about road-trips and all the places they’d like to go some day. Maybe she’d tell him about driving across American roads that stretch vacant for miles, or maybe she would recall a particularly memorable road-trip she took with a group of friends in college. And he’d tell her all about his home town, and how maybe she’d like to drive there with him some day and picnic in the field he and his mates used to play football on.

And oh, wasn’t he hopeless? Here he was, sitting by himself in an empty apartment on a Friday night because while he had a thousand versions of their couch conversations planned out, he had absolutely none planned for making the couch conversation happen in the first place. He didn’t know how he might convince her to come up to his flat, let alone create a situation in which he might get her alone to begin the convincing. With a shudder, he thought back to just a few hours before, when Mr. Fell had caught him staring out the window. It certainly wasn’t the first time an interaction like that one had happened—Mr. Fell finding some way to sneak up behind him, startling him out of a love-lost reverie—but it was the first time Mr. Fell had taken it upon himself to offer any sort of love advice and suggest Newt do something about his hopeless crush. Usually, he simply departed after Newt thoroughly embarrassed himself with a simple smirk or, on occasion, a teasing but good-spirited laugh.

But who was he to offer advice! Mr. Fell, for the five years that Newt had known him, had never once uttered a word about a spouse or partner or even a casual date. When he raved about the new Indian restaurant across town, Mr. Fell never made any mention of having been accompanied by a doting date or charming stranger. As far as Newt knew, Mr. Fell retired to the flat above the shop every night and probably spent it the same way as Newt: drinking alone, reading, and occasionally wondering what it might be like to have a second person to share the space with. In that case, maybe it was fitting that Newt and Mr. Fell had each other. Both of them were hopeless romantics: Newt, with his crush on the girl-next-door, and Mr. Fell, with his first edition romance novels, and neither of them with anybody to share a candle-lit dinner with. Maybe, Newt thought, that was a little bit sad. He thought Mr. Fell had to have _somebody _to occupy his thoughts. If only he knew who it was, so he might return the favor of insisting Mr. Fell invite his crush to dinner. Newt took a swig of beer, contemplative.

He didn’t want to end up like Mr. Fell. Not that Mr. Fell wasn’t a wonderfully kind, quick-witted, thoughtful, and at times hilarious individual who cared for Newt like a son. It was just that Newt didn’t want to consider a future where he might, twenty years from now, still be not-selling books to people and coming home to an empty apartment and not having anybody to ask him about his day or watch Saturday _Doctor Who_reruns with. Surely there was somebody out there who might appreciate the venom in Mr. Fell’s voice when a customer attempted to buy a book, or the warmth in his voice when he talked to Newt about the many travels he had gone on at Newt’s age and all the wonderful meals he had experienced along the way. And then, with a sudden uptick in his heart rate, a realization occurred to him. _Happiness is actionable. _Mr. Fell had been right, he realized, suddenly sitting upright on the couch and sloshing beer onto the knee of his trousers.

_Certainly, a nice dinner couldn’t hurt?_

No, he imagined, dinner couldn’t hurt any more than an already-empty apartment. And just like that, he was scrambling for a pen and the notebook he kept by the phone. It was time for him to buck up, as Mr. Fell would say, and ask Anathema to dinner. Heart racing and an uncharacteristic feeling of bravery pulsing through him, he began to write.

* * *

The next morning, Anathema could feel some kind of apprehension from Crowley that she hadn't encountered in a while. Crowley, who had beaten her to the shop by an hour and demanded she bring coffee on her way in, was being snarkier than normal over text. She was unsure if the moodiness was a continuation of their sort-of-fight last night or something else, but she couldn't be sure until she went into the work and could make sense of the situation in person. So, it was at 8:45am she walked in with an arm full of coffee as a peace offering, along with her motorcycle helmet and a glossy magazine.

“Morning,” she said, setting the cup of coffee down in front of Crowley, who was once again occupying her stool up front.

“That it is," he replied. His voice sounded rough, like it did at the start of the cold or after a screaming session with the orchids. Polite as ever, Anathema decided not to comment on it.

“Did you see this?” she asked, dropping the magazine on the counter before reaching around him to deposit her helmet in its usual position by the counter.

“What is it?” Crowley didn't even look up from the orchid he was sitting in front of. He was hunched, slightly, like he was bone-tired and also on edge. She noted a coffee stain on his shirt—still on his shoulder, like he hadn’t gone home and changed out of the shirt from last night.

“Did you even go home last night? Why are you wearing the same shirt?”

“I’m not—” and then finally he noticed the stain, “shit—I didn’t—Look, I stayed after you left, I just wanted to finish with the James’ order, I didn’t—”

“Didja sleep?” she asked, finally taking pity on him and pushing his coffee closer into his line of sight. “Because you look like shit.”

“Cheeky,” he said, looking up to glare. His bags were usually bad, but somewhat negated by the ever-present addition of sunglasses he wore regardless of the weather conditions or his presence indoors. Crowley wasn’t wearing them now, though, and Anathema could see the dark purple sunken in under his hazel eyes. He took a sip, and then drew back like the coffee offended him.

“It’s hot!”

“It’s coffee, dumbass, it's supposed to be hot. And you didn’t answer my question.”

With a huff, he lifted the plastic lid and began to blow on the drink. “I did sleep, acutally. Just wasn’t on my bed, and for less time than I would’ve liked.”

“Did you sleep in the back of the Bentley again? Because if you keep doing that the neighbors are going to, I dunno, call whatever social services is out here and I’m tired of having to explain to Mrs. Ramsay that you’re not actually homeless—”

“—I don’t even know who that is, and no, I didn’t sleep in the Bentley. Piss off.”

“Ooh, somebody’s crabby this morning. So you didn’t sleep in the Bentley, did you sleep on the floor in the back? Finally making good on the threat to the orchids that they should sleep with one eye open?”

“No, I didn’t—it wasn’t here--”

“Oh my god!”she shrieked, pointing at him._“You slept with somebody!? _Who? Do I know them?”

“I—no, we are not having this conversation, I did not—”

“Oh no, if you’re going to harass me about Newt I get to harass you in return! Who was it?”

He flushed, beet red. His hair was blending into his cheeks, bright as they were. He pointedly looked away from her, looking out the same window he’d been glaring out just last night. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious, before they blew wide.

“Aziraphale?! Oh, that’s _rich_! What happened to the sex trafficking ring, huh? What happened to _malicious intent _and –”

“Look, I’ll have you know, I went over there after you left to have a word with that shop keep about his vulgar looks and to put the fear of, well, _me _into him but he’d already left. Must’ve happened while you insisted on dancing like absolute lunatics in the shop. And anyway, he wasn’t even there to yell at so I was going to leave but then Aziraphale insisted I stay for a glass of wine, and you know I love a good Bordeaux, and then— 

“—and then you _slept together, _oh my _god.”_

_“_W--we didn’t—”and he did something with his hands, not quite able to say repeat the accusation. He looked like he wanted to get up and leave the shop, or perhaps the country, but also like he might like to sink into the floor. “We didn’t, we just—_look_. Not that’s it’s any of your business, but we just had the wine and then got caught talking and then I caught the time on my watch, and he offered his couch to sleep on because it was so late! And he went to his bed. Upstairs, separate from me, nothing else!”

A smug grin rested on her face. “But you wanted to kiss him, huh?”

“I’m not answering that. Besides, he was just being polite, I’m sure he didn’t—I mean, he wouldn’t want to, you know—with me--do anything like _that._”

“Oh, I’m so holding this over your head for the rest of your life. You and Aziraphale. _Dating._”

“Keep that up and you’ll find yourself out a job rather quick, Device.”

“Oh, you love me,” she said, grinning manically. “I brought you coffee and indirectly got you a gentleman suitor. If anything, I deserve a raise.”

“Out of the question. Moving on,” he jabbed a finger at the magazine, replacing the lid on his coffee. “What’s this?”

“Oh! Martha—the barista at the café, the one with the piercings?—she saved this for us when she saw it. She’s got a subscription to this magazine, I think, and wanted us to have a copy. It’s got a review of us in it!”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and he readjusted, sitting straight on the stool and raising his cup to take a sip. He looked only slightly less flustered than he had just a minute ago, with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. Offset with the bags, he looked only slightly deranged. “Let’s hear it then!”

She cleared her throat, grinning, and pulled the magazine from him. The article was marked with a small post-it note, where Martha had written a small little congratulations with a smiley face next to it. Anathema flipped it open to the marked spot, and took on a posh accent to read the review.

“It says, ‘_While in recent years Infernal Floral has branched out to online and call-in floral bouquets, featuring hand-chosen stems from local growers and thoughtfully-selected vases from local artisans, as well as verdant houseplants for the green-thumb who isn’t afraid of commitment, their best-kept secret is their selection of rare and hybrid orchids_.”

He hums approvingly, and she looks up to see a small smile on his face. He rolls his eyes, and waves at her in the universal gesture of “go on.” She knew he loved when she did a terrible British accent, and was glad to see that it was having its desired effect. 

“_’Though not obvious at first glance—as all the orchids are kept in a back room, viewed by appointment only—the shop hosts a variety of quality and well-tended orchids simply unmatched by any other shop in the greater London area.’ _Yeah, they’re right on that one, but little do they know how much screaming is required for that selection._‘Stop in for an ample selection of flora fit for birthdays, baby showers, weddings, and impressing the boss—but make a point of setting up an appointment to see the shop’s coveted Garden of Eden. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll walk out with a new bloom to impress house guests and horticulturists alike.’_”

Anathema looked up then, and saw him with a soft smile and a gaze directed towards the orchid in front of him. Reviews were few and far between for them—as they were still more of a hidden gem in London than a well-known flower shop—but she knew how much they meant to Crowley. He never said it aloud, but Anathema knew that he was incredibly critical on himself and a bit of a perfectionist, and the orchids were a way of controlling those tendencies and using them for good. Having somebody recognize the hard work he put in, complimenting hours and hours of labor and love that went into maintaining such a shop, was essential in keeping him going. And just like that, all her anxieties about Newt and her sort-of fight with Crowley were washed away, overtaken by contentment that between the review and his new-found relationship with Aziraphale, Crowley was finally getting some long-overdue happiness.

“Good job, boss. You and your orchids are finally getting the attention they deserve.”

“Couldn’t do it without you,” he said, hiding his smile in another sip of coffee. “Now enough of this. Get to work.”

* * *

Mr. Fell was acting incredibly strange.

He had, within the first hour of Newt coming in for his shift, spilt nearly three cups of tea, greeted several customers, and more concerningly, sold a book. Newt was incredibly worried but also confused, because it also seemed that Mr. Fell was in a startlingly good mood. He was humming to himself as he shelved several new acquisitions, and despite the tea incidents, was seemingly fine. More than fine, actually. It was putting Newt on edge.

He had, in fact, been gearing himself up to have an intervention of sorts before Mr. Fell came up to him and informed Newt he’d be taking the rest of the day off for a last-minute auction in the countryside. Newt, rather confused, had taken this as his opportunity to express his concerns. It was now or never, he supposed.

“Of course, sir, but if I may—are you, er, that is…are you okay?”

Mr. Fell blinked, just once, but rather owlishly. “But of course, dear boy, why do you ask?”

“It’s just that—and don’t take this the wrong way—you just seem, ah, really happy? And you sold a book earlier, and I wasn’t sure if that was just because it was one of three copies we have in stock or because it was a title you didn’t particularly like, but you also said hi when Mr. Brookes came in and usually you can’t _stand _him because he always has his eyes on your American poetry selection and—”

“Newton,” Mr. Fell said with a soft smile, cutting off Newt’s rambling. “I must thank you for your concern, but I’m completely fine. Better than that, really. It’s just I had a particularly splendid interaction last night and I suppose it’s left me in a good mood.”

“An interaction?” Newt said, scrambling. “That doesn’t—well, I guess—but you don’t mean—you had a _date?”_

“I don’t know if I could go so far as to classify it as a date. But the conversation was engaging and we opened a Bourdeaux and then a wonderful little bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and we did keep talking until rather late…”

“Mr. Fell, you had a _date_,” Newt insisted, with just an appropriate amount of awe in his voice.

“Ah, well,” Mr. Fell said, and was he _blushing? _“I suppose I did. But that, ah, that is beside the point now. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more details, and really I must be on my way out if I hope to beat out the crowds at this auction.”

“Right,” Newt responded, still taken aback. “But I want to hear more about this _date _when you get back."

Another soft smile, this time a bit rushed as Mr. Fell made to put on his traveling coat and scarf he kept by the door, was sent his way. 

“Of course. And feel free to close early, dear boy, it is a Saturday after all. I'm sure you've got evening plans you'd love to run off to.” And then he was off, leaving Newt with an empty shop and a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket from the night before.

He spent the rest of the afternoon shelving the books Mr. Fell had gotten at the last auction he’d been to, and pulled out the ancient vacuum cleaner from the supply closet and went over the rugs. And, as ritual called for, he replaced the vacuum with a feather duster and began making his way from the back of the shop towards the windows, deftly sweeping over volumes of books until he found himself staring across the street again. But instead of locating the step-ladder and perching in his usual spot, Newt set the feather duster down and felt for the paper in his pocket. It was creased and crumpled, slightly worn on the edges for having been in his pocket all day. He steeled himself again and then reviewed the note:

_How to Ask Anathema Device to Dinner_  
_Step 1: Cross the street and walk into the flower shop_  
_Step 2: Tell her you are interested in getting plants for the shop, ask if she has suggestions (but note that no decisions can be made until Mr. Fell gets back, otherwise it’ll look suspicious that you are not well invested in the plants and haven’t done any research)_  
_Step 3: Compliment her (humor? knowledge of flowers?) while carrying on the conversation_  
_Step 4: When it looks like the conversation is winding down, ask if she might be interested in grabbing something to eat _  
_Step 5: If she likes Indian, try that place Mr. Fell is always talking about. Same for sushi. Otherwise, go to the Vietnamese place she always orders take out from_

Right. He could do this. It was still rather early—the flower shop wouldn’t close until 9, and it was only 6 as it were—but he had seen her leave the shop early on the weekends plenty of times. Newt was vaguely aware that the owner, Mr. Crowley, practically lived in his shop and would likely allow Anathema to kip out early for dinner with Newt. Well, he hoped so. There were plenty of factors he hadn’t considered last night, and variables he couldn’t account for and things that might go wrong, and his mind could easily run off imagining details that would trip him up and make him change his mind. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. No, this time he was going to be brave and he was going to cross the street and for the first time ever enter the doors of Infernal Floral. And Anathema would either have him, or she wouldn’t. He’d just have to see what happens.

And it was with that thought that he quickly replaced the note in his pocket, straightened his collar, brushed down his pants, and made his way out the door of A. Z. Fell & Co. He took to the sidewalk, feeling a rush of confidence and nervousness and something else, and stepped towards the flower shop. It was with a sudden shoot of pain in his side, a blaring car horn, and delayed smack to his forehead that he lost sight of the flower shop and felt his eyes shutter closed, pushing away any and all thoughts of prospective dinner plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a cliff hanger! This is where the action will start picking up, and the next chapter will have some interesting developments with Newt and Anathema.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments. The things you all leave there keep me going as I write each chapter, and who knows--maybe your suggestions will inspire some plot points ;-) I have the plot mostly mapped out, but there's always room for new ideas!
> 
> Thanks for the support y'all!! See you in a couple of days


	4. Chapter 4

She’d been making her way through the small handful of online orders when Crowley emerged, bleary-eyed and covered in significantly more soil on his shirt then he’d gone in with, and declared he was going to get them food. Food, and plentiful amounts of caffeine.

“’S’not quite dinner time yet, but I guess I could do with a snack. Where are you headed?” [1]

“To the bakery. I need more caffeine if I want to finish with all the propagation by tomorrow’s viewing.”

Anathema hummed, as if to acknowledge that she knew which viewing he was talking about. While she occasionally fielded calls or scheduled viewings of the orchids, Crowley preferred she leave all orchid-related matters to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her to do it, because she was pretty sure at this point in their relationship, he’d trust her to do field surgery on a bullet wound if the situation called for it, or perhaps even repark his beloved Bentley. Rather, it was because Crowley had his own chaotic internal schedule that incorporated the needs of the orchids and his personal needs for sleep and food with the various viewings, sales, and occasional day trips to pick up new specimens and it was all a bit too convoluted to leave to anybody but himself. Or so he told her. She was responsible for making sure he ate and slept on a regular basis, running the entire front of the shop, and often doing her own payroll, and was therefore rather confident in her ability to tack on the occasional scheduling duty, but she got the sense it was a matter of pride at this point so let him have it.

“—scones or anything?"

She blinked and realized Crowley was talking to her. Maybe she could do with a bit of a pick-me-up, too, if she wanted to last the remaining hours until closing.

“Could you grab me a coffee and something small, maybe a muffin if they have any left? But not blueberry because--”

“You’re allergic, I remember.” He gave her a nod and made his way to the counter to grab his jacket. Anathema realized that her arrangement station had overtaken most of the counter along with his jacket, and moved some rose stems off of it. Crowley pulled it out and shook it slightly, warily eyeing it for stray thorns, before holding it up to sniff the collar. Before he could voice any complaints, she shot him a look.

“We have a perfectly good coat rack two feet to your left. Use it if you don’t want your jacket to be part of the counter real estate. And don’t make that face at me, you _like _the smell of roses.”

He grumbled something she couldn’t make out, slipping his arms into his jacket and then brushing some lingering dirt from his front. While this morning the wrinkled linen shirt and tired eyes had left him looking like a slightly beleaguered office manager, he had managed to cover himself in potting soil and gotten some dirt on his face. Now, she thought with a small smile, he looked like he’d gotten into a fight with one of his orchids and lost—badly. She wondered what Martha would say when he rolled into the bakery and ordered an extra-large cup of coffee and amused herself with what that interaction might look like for the next few moments.

“Back in twenty,” he said, and then was out the door and moving past the windows, stalking towards the bakery.

With nothing but the faint crooning of Freddie Mercury in the background to give her company, she returned to the pile of roses, plucking a few stems and positioning them in the glass vase she’d already put some baby’s breath into. She worked at a steady pace for a few more minutes, before a rather loud noise pulled her focus away. It was the unmistakable cacophony of a car accident—a blaring car horn, screeching tires, the tell-tale whine of worn out brakes, a few panicked shouts from people on the street. She immediately sat up from the stool to look out the window and see what the commotion was about, craning her neck to see a crowd gathering outside of the book shop.

And immediately she was running out the door, toward the scene of the crash. Moments ago, where there had been a black sedan disappearing around the corner by the bookshop there now was a crowd of passerby huddled around a familiar figure now lying prone at the edge of the crosswalk. As she ran over, she pushed through the crowds and kneeled down to see a mop of brown hair, a warm brown jumper over a button-up, and Newt’s eyes blinking open, scrunched slightly in confusion and perhaps pain.

“’N’thema?” She looked at his eyes, which seemed focused enough. He must’ve hit his head on the way down, she figured, but the edge of his hairline didn’t seem to have any blood. Surely, he didn’t have a concussion? There was a cut just above his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem deep. She tore her gaze away from him and looked towards the direction the car had disappeared to, between a gap in the crowd that was slowly beginning to thin.

“Jesus, Newt, what happened? Are you okay?”

“Was just crossing the street, didn’t see anybody coming—” and before he could finish, a man in a suit and overcoat who seemed to have just gotten off work walked up, phone in hand.

“Miss, is this your friend? Should we call an ambulance?”

She glanced down at Newt again, who was struggling to push himself up onto his elbows. He seemed alright, if not slightly banged up.

“No, I—no, thank you, but I’ll patch him up. My shop is just across the street. If he still needs to see a doctor, I can call one from there.”

She bit her lip and glanced to Newt to check that he was alright with her having spoken for him. “Newt? That okay?”

“Wha’? Oh, yeah, yeah. Shop’s fine. I’ll be a’right.”

The man nodded at their interaction, and pocketed his phone before kneeling down across from her. Newt was now struggling to sit fully upright, and Anathema worried her lip at the movement. “Let me at least help ‘im up, then.”

Anathema glanced up and gave the man a small smile, and then nodded at the stranger who had begun maneuvering one of Newt’s arms around his shoulder. She mirrored him and put an arm around Newt’s waist to help with offsetting the weight. Anathema felt it when he was fully upright, and was thankful that years of repotting had given her core stability and upper body strength. The stranger pulled away once Newt found his footing and patted his shoulder briefly. It was on odd gesture, Anathema couldn’t help but think to herself, but she was appreciative of the bit of help he’d offered, nonetheless.

“Alright, mate? Feel better,” and with that, he walked off. The rest of the crowd had moved on by this point, and Anathema was thankful that nobody had made a scene. Newt seemed the type to get flustered by things like that, but she would’ve liked it if at least one person had stuck around and gave her a description of the car and driver. Perhaps somebody had even caught the license plate, and she could’ve but oh well. She had bigger worries now.

Anathema steered them towards the flower shop, careful to check both ways for approaching cars. God forbid they get in another car accident. As they moved forward, Newt became a bit more sure of his footing and was able to carry more of his weight. By the time that they got to the shop, he seemed slightly pale and was breathing at a staccato pace, but was otherwise holding himself up. Risking a glance at his face, she could see it was scrunched up in pain and he’d pulled his eyebrows together as they got to the door. Bracing them, she pulled the door open and moved him toward the counter.

“Sorry, sorry—here let me just—” and she lowered him into the stool, where he leaned his back against the wall and breathed in a rough breath.

There was a small trail of blood coming from the cut above his eyebrow, and he had moved his arm to clutch at his ribs. But sitting seemed to be helping him catch his breath, at least.

“Are you—obviously you’re not okay, but what hurts? We have a first aid kit I can grab from the back for your eyebrow, but if you have any internal bleeding or broken ribs, I should probably have you taken to the hospital.”

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said, pulling his arm away just a bit. “I think the car hit my side, so there’s sure to be some bruising. I guess the walk over just moved my side the wrong way.”

“Okay,” Anathema breathed, locking eyes with him. She took a steadying breath. “I’m going to go grab the kit, then. I’ll be back in a second so maybe try not to pass out in the mean time? I really hope you aren’t concussed.”

“Sure,” he agreed, a little perplexed by the intensity of her expression but thankful all the same. “I’ll just…be here.”

She held his gaze for a second longer, scrutinizing, and then pulled back with a sharp nod. With a turn, she disappeared around the corner and left Newt alone at the front of the shop. He’d never been in there before, and he took all of it in with an appropriate (he hoped) sense of awe. It was incredibly lush, packed with greenery along the walls, hanging from the ceiling, on the floor and in a center median. It seemed a complementary opposite to the brightly-lit bookshop, where there was always a bit of staleness in the air that came along with old books and sunlight. The counter in front of him had several vases of flowers off to the side, with an assortment of blooms filling them. A discarded coffee cup sat behind the row of vases, and he saw next to it a keyring, a glossy magazine, a crumpled receipt, and a motorcycle helmet. He recognized the helmet, at least, as Anathema’s, and felt for the first time since entering the shop a flutter of nervousness. With a start, he remembered the reason he had been crossing the street to begin with, and quickly shoved a hand into his pocket for his note. He’d have to completely change his approach now, since he’d mucked up _step one, _and would she even want to get dinner after patching him up, he wondered, or would she see him as so utterly incompetent for not even being able to cross the street that she’d want nothing to do with him after this small act of charity?

His heartbeat quickened as he felt around his pocket. His fingers didn’t skim any paper. It must have fallen out of his pocket during the accident, and now he was really panicking, as he hadn’t thought to make a copy and didn’t have a clue where to go from here and-- 

“Found it,” Anathema said, standing in front of him and hoisting a red metal tin up for him to see. “Crowley must’ve moved it again. Sorry I took so long.”

Newt found he couldn’t really meet her eyes, but watched as she pushed some red and pink roses off to the side of the counter so she could set the tin down and sift through it. It appeared well stocked and had, from what he could tell, an overabundance of supplies that could treat anything from a papercut to a shark attack. Newt wondered, briefly, just what sorts of injuries working in a flower shop could bring about. Again his thoughts were drawn back to Anathema, and he watched her set out a pair of plastic gloves, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze pads, a package of what looked like small bandages, and some sort of medical tape.

“No need to give me that look,” she said, catching his panicked expression. “I’m first aid certified.” [2]

“R-right, sorry just…not a fan of blood,” he said. It wasn’t that he was scared of her tending to his wounds, but rather that he found this an incredibly awkward position to ask her on a date. He was struggling with what to do next. He needed to re-strategize, but certainly couldn’t do so while seated right in front of her at her workplace and losing blood, could he? _Think,_he demanded of his still disoriented brain, _Do something. Make a joke._

“You, ah…you treat car crash victims often?”

She gave a soft laugh as finished pulling her gloves on with a faint _snap_, and uncapped the bottle of peroxide. The smell hit his nose almost immediately, and his nerves flared again. “Not really. The only first aid I ever get the chance to administer is to plants, and they don’t tend to bleed. You’ll be my first human, as well as my first car crash victim.”

And she pulled out some gauze and placed it on the bottle, inverting it briefly to transfer some of the liquid. “I’m going to clean up your cut now, okay? It might sting a little, but I’ll do my best to be gentle."

He gave a nod, and she placed a steadying hand on side of his face while she dabbed at his eyebrow. It didn’t sting, not really, but maybe that was because he was so focused on the warmth of her fingers along his forehead, his cheekbone, his jaw and the rhythmic pat of the wadded gauze. When she pulled back, he almost felt relaxed.

“Okay, and now I’m going to put on some butterfly bandages. I’d give you a _Hello Kitty _band-aid, but I save those for when Crowley gets papercuts. Sound good?”

And he could only nod, mutely. He almost shivered when her hands came down again, this time bordering his eyebrow as she put on the bandages and topped it with gauze. He watched her face as she applied them, her eyebrows slightly creased in focus and her teeth pulling at her bottom lip. Her hands were perfectly steady, and when she pulled back, it was with a satisfied smile as she checked over her handiwork. Anathema gave him an intense look and brought her hands up to his head, carding her fingers through his hair and moving them gently, sweeping towards the nape of his neck. It was all he could do not to let his eyelids flutter shut, content, but he reveled in the soft touches.

“You don’t seem to be bleeding anywhere here,” she said softly. “So that’s ‘probable brain damage’ you can cross off your list of concerns. Can I see your ribs?”

“I—” Newt’s brain, despite the assurance that it wasn’t traumatized from the accident, short circuited. “W-what?”

“Your ribs? Can you,” and she made a sort-of scooping gesture, urging him to lift his shirt. “Just for a second, so I can see if you’ve sprung a leak or grown a third arm or something.” 

“Uh, r-right,” he agreed, feeling himself flush. He pulled at his shirt, slowly, finding himself incredibly embarrassed to be under her serious and unwavering gaze. This was not what he had pictured this interaction going like at all—not even close. Newt was supposed to have asked her to _dinner_, and now here he was pulling up his shirt in the middle of a flower shop and— 

“_Christ! Watch it!”_

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m sorry!” Anathema said, pulling her finger away from where she’d accidentally jabbed him in the rib. “I’ll go slower, sorry, you just breathed a little too fast and I didn’t move in time…”

He sucked in a breath and nodded, hitching his shirt up a little higher and trying to let himself relax again. Most of his stomach was exposed, now, and her fingers were ghosting over his left side. Newt fought a shiver, feeling just a few pricks of pain in the areas that were a bit more tender.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s—you’re fine—”

“Anathema, I’m back with the—” And suddenly Newt was locking eyes with a very furious Crowley, who was holding up a paper bag from the bakery and balancing two cups of coffee. He looked a few seconds away from throwing one of them at Newt’s face, and Newt was thankful for several feet of space and a solid wood counter between himself and the man that regularly shot him glares from across the street. Anathema pulled away from him with a flinch, straightening up in an instant. Newt dropped his shirt, hiding his exposed stomach. 

“_What the bloody hell is going on here?!_”

* * *

1 Anathema asked where he was going only to receive confirmation on what she already knew. The duo only ever got their sustenance from two places: the bakery, and the Vietnamese restaurant down the street. And the Vietnamese place delivered, so she could only ever expect that a trip made by herself or Crowley would be to the bakery. Ultimately the only things needed to keep Infernal Floral running was take-away pho, banh mi, ample amounts of caffeine, scones, and the occasional seasonal pastry.

2 This wasn’t quite true. Anathema had taken a first aid course as a Girl Scout, but that had been over a decade ago and she didn’t remember much from it at all except that if somebody had a spine injury they shouldn’t be moved. In reality, she was just a big fan of medical drama shows and had seen enough _Greys Anatomy _to feel confident in her ability to patch a small cut and maybe tie a tourniquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally couldn't restrain myself. I needed to make this bit available, as I stayed up almost all night writing it out. More to come soon.


End file.
